In response to a prompt in the Death_by_Quill collection on A03
Prompt: Round Two Only
Theme: Temptation A/U creature!fic. Vampire!Pansy + Healer Harry. *Contains dark themes, dark descriptions, course language.* You may or may not find characters OOC. The war still happened… Lub-dub is technically the correct sound of a beating heart.
Song choice: Undisclosed desires by Muse, which also inspired the title.
Thank you to my Beta SaintDionysus for calming my nerves and helping me get this under the word count! And thank you for rewording this: "Magical genetics, especially when concerning the passing on of tainted abilities of vampires, werewolves, veelas, and the like, is increasingly more fair to male heirs—they are spared any impurities impeding their precious blood," to help it make the count! I own nothing. But the plot is mine.
St Mungo's:
New division of the Janus Thickey Ward;
(Blatant terms — psychiatric ward)
Day one. Solitary confinement.
The heavy mass of iron provides an impenetrable door to the room. It's hinges creak and echo, as it slams shut with a loud thud . On the other side of it she can hear a low, steady hum; lub-dub, lub-dub: lub— being the sound of the tricuspid and mitral valves; dub— the sound of the aortic and pulmonary valves closing. They work in unison, signifying life; signalling the blood flow of his working , beating heart.
Lub-dub.
Litres of blood pump through elastic tubes; circulating oxygen-rich blood through his body.
Lub-dub.
His body is a human vessel; an oak barrel, aging blood like it's currant-flavoured wine.
Pansy inhales a sharp breath, exposing her teeth as the crisp air of her seclusion zone stings her fangs that ache to sink into Harry's flesh.
This isn't her private quarters—no. She has been admitted to solitary confinement for the next week. The only human she will come into contact with is her Healer, Potter. Harry-Fucking- Potter.
She is currently restrained in a straightjacket in a "rubber room," with four walls lined with padding resembling stiff, and stale old pin cushions. The room itself has an odd scent lingering that can only be described as "wet dog." Her nose scrunches in disgust at the stench. Yuck! Filthy mutts been in here!
Pansy refocuses her senses to distract herself from the smell. Harry , only Harry, and his blood.
She feels a rush and she swipes her tongue along her teeth. Her incisors and canines erupt from her gums and she grunts, chomping down on her teeth in frustration. She hasn't feasted on blood in weeks.
Being a half -breed meant she can live off both human food and human blood ; but there is something painfully satisfying about tasting the palate of humans—direct from the source. Some are velvety and smooth, with the sugary sweetness of chocolate. Some taste highly acidic—tart and zesty with the same bitterness of a lemon; she likes this flavour the least. Her favourite flavour is a rich aged oak—smooth with a cream-like texture, and when it hits her tongue—It's heavenly, buttery goodness.
From her close interactions with Harry, she'd sensed that none of the above pulsed through his veins. Whatever is? It's bold flavoursome concoction calls her. Her throat burns with an unquenchable thirst; hunger insatiable, as she bloodlusts his forbidden wine, fighting the temptation to reveal herself.
Her bottom lip quivers; she closes her eyes to imagine his taste. Despite the mop of hair on his head she salivates imagining his purely opulent flavour. Rich and smooth—raw and fleshy like steak, with a bold essence of iron. Hmm. Delectable .
The stark, bright, white walls are already permeating her subconscious. The "undead" usually prefer to walk amongst the shadows,signing themselves to a life of the night—it's much easier that way. But not for Pansy, no. That is not the life. This is not the life; these fluorescent lights are a fucking nightmare and her skin is already tingling. She needs to get out of isolation . She needs to ensure the success of the prophecy. If she fails, she will be forced to live a cursed life—pure vampire.
Pansy has her father's indiscretions to blame for the trade-off with Lord Voldemort. There's no escaping unscathed. Freedom does not exist. Her stupid, pathetic Death Eater father, Pucey Parkinson, took an unbreakable vow. He's a gutless fool that is true. They all are. She didn't fight against it—neither did anyone else.
Pansy is a merely pawn of convenience in the Dark Lord's plan. There is no other option. It's do this or never daywalk again. Everyone would know the truth, she would be ruined, nothing could save her reputation if it came to that...
At least when her mother was alive—despite her lineage—Pansy still had the ability to make some choices. Those days are long gone. Gone —is the grandeur of her bedroom with a larger than life bed and her luxurious sheets. Gone, are subtle homey comforts she kept hidden from prying eyes. Gone , is her endless supply of feeders and her lavish array of blood selected by her own hand. She sunk her teeth into only the finest. It's all gone…fulfill the prophecy. It's the only way.
She sits with stoic resignation on the floor with her arms still strapped in the jacket, her task— " fulfill the prophecy," on her mind.
It's hard to focus when the temptation of fresh blood, his blood is so near…
Day two. Solitary confinement.
Pansy hasn't heard his heart beating in twenty-four hours! Urgh! It's been four weeks since I've had the pleasure of draining a human dry. Three weeks since I've quenched my thirst on a bloody delight—twenty-four hours since I heard the steady drum of his heartbeat…
Day three. Solitary confinement.
A melancholy Pansy is deeply affected by what feels like a prolonged stay in here. It has been tumultuous; and it's hard for her to escape her gloomy state of mind.
Despite the caliginous room, she still has her mind. It's still intact up there, minus her pride that continues to sink into the pits of a bottomless abyss. If there's a hell—well honey I'm "home," she thinks to herself sarcastically. She's surrounded by four walls; staring around this pathetic dingy, stale little room; isolated from reality in this desolate shoe box, as blurs of a twisted fantasy threaten to push her mind over the edge of this hell hole.
The only positive is the fact that her distance from Harry has given her a new perspective: "fresh eyes" if you will. Her thoughts are clearer than ever despite surroundings threatening to close in on her.
Without the temptation of blood she has most definitely begun the first stages of detoxification.
She feels twitchy. Sensitive to the lights, and her inability to sleep has left her feeling more alert than ever. She is most definitely caught in the struggle; lingering on the edge of insanity.
Her focus is somewhat jittery.
The slow, dry burn of her throat is equivalent to the aftereffects of smoke inhalation in a fire. Dehydration. Shrivelled skin that resembles dried prunes, with burns layered so deep into the dermis there is little pain due to the nerve endings being destroyed. The charred, flakey skin in her throat feels thick and lumpy, and it tickles her. Irritating her. Causing her to cough, and wheeze and gasp for air as she desperately wishes she could to clutch her throat. This was not part of the fucking plan.
The impending task she has been given is what is leaving her forlorn of all hope. She had to be here and she had to do this. But she didn't want to be here or have any part in this.
She's fighting the struggle between her thirst for blood and her ambition to see through this task to gain just an inch of freedom. Urgh. This fucking task.
Her mother was slayed in vain for this damn prophecy by the very woman who is now her "maker." Pansy Parkinson is the protégé of Bellatrix Parkinson nee Black. As her protégé, Pansy is less inclined to execute her own free will, not only out of fear of retribution, but because she is what they call—"The Anointed."
Bellatrix is responsible for Pansy's mother's death. Penélope Parkinson was disrupting the future of the prophecy. Subsequently, Penélope did the only rational thing by common nature. Bite. Her immortal life was in peril by the crazed woman, who threatened her black heart. Penélope's defence was flawed; tempted by the litres of fresh blood; a mass production of bloody goodness tickled her senses and caused a frenzied attack. But Bellatrix was quick to act; staking her before she had a chance to drain her of every sour drop. Bella was bitten in the process, and is now an infected vampire herself, much to the Dark Lords dismay.
Bellatrix took her duty too far, wanting to fulfill orders to the best of her ability, and had let herself be "tempted" by Pansy's father, which in turn, resulted in Pansy's father tempting Bellatrix to waver her loyalty to the Dark Lord.
Infidelity with Voldemort's most trusted Death Eater; defiling her—landed Pucey Parkinson in hot water. Voldemort was outraged by his treason. Disgusted by the betrayal to his pureblood descendants. Disturbed—Pucey tainted their blood with a filthy half-breed .
And so he was punished.
Before Voldemort's sacrificial death at the hands of Harry Potter, he forced an unbreakable vow. A vow to ensure the Anointed—Pucey's daughter; acts to fulfill the prophecy.
Bellatrix was Punished and desperate. She complied with his every word. Since Penélope's bloodline runs through Bella's veins; she was now compatible to rebite Pansy in an attempt to "remake" her, but she could only override her mother's lineage if she married Pansy's father.
This now makes Pansy the vampire protégé of Bellatrix Parkinson—much to Bella's dismay; an aid in holding power over her protégé; a ploy to assist the succession of the prophecy.
Harry Potter's seed makes the future destruction of the Dark Lord reincarnate an impossible task. Magical genetics, especially when concerning the passing on of tainted abilities of vampires, werewolves, veelas, and the like, is increasingly more fair to male heirs—they are spared any impurities impeding their precious blood. The Chosen One's; half-blood; seed, implanted in the womb of the Anointed; half-breed; will birth a son to be the purest of all pure-bloods.
A supremacy.
Magic will play part in ensuring "The Supreme" is the birthed reincarnate of Voldemort. And Bellatrix curses Pansy with a succubus demon to aid in tempting Harry along the way due to her defiance...
Day four. Solitary confinement.
In all honesty, the thought of procreating with Harry Potter repulses her. It sickens her in a way that she feels discomfort and unease in the upper of her stomach, which eventually follows through with an involuntary urge to vomit. The shitty thing is that hematemesis isn't necessarily considered a "normal" thing. Not in the Wizarding world it isn't. When you are a filthy half-breed-hybrid; part-human/part-vampire; vomiting blood is a tragic waste, and Witches and Wizards aren't accustomed to seeing immortal beings. But just because that sickens her doesn't mean her thirst for his blood does too. No. That red liquid of life; that bodily fluidity of red blood cells, white blood cells, platelets and plasma combined make one hell of a deliciously wicked cocktail...
Pansy is watching the fluorescent lights flicker in synchronization with a low dull thud. Wait a minute. Thats—
Lub-dub.
Pansy forces herself up in anticipation of his arrival. All thoughts disrupted by the familiar steady hum. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
The smell of his decadence, seeps through the vents. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
The heavy iron door releases its charms and it's hinges creak, as it swings open. Harry's bold scent wafts in the room and circulates her nostrils, causing them to flare with unwavering ease. She is welcomed by the smell of fresh blood.
Pansy's mouth salivates as Harry's blood decanters in the doorway; allowing his true flavours to ferment. His aroma permeates the air. Damn it, Potter!
She feels her fangs threaten to burst from her gums. She has been parched for too long.
Pansy looks Harry up and down like he's a piece of meat and she hears his heart rate accelerate at her attentive gaze. She chomps her mouth closed to control of her natural urge to feast, but the increased flow of his blood pulses flawlessly , and she can hear it calling her sweet name. "Pansy." Lub-dub." Pansssy. Pan—"
She's unable to control herself any longer. So thirsty. So hungry…
Pansy wants to devour him; torn between just a "taste" and draining him completely. Just a drop...save some for later— she reprimands herself. She ignores the subtle prod of her other predicament. Her real reason for being here.
Fuck the damn prophecy! If there's one thing I want more then to walk in the daylight it's his blood—now!
Harry guides her out of her solitary prison and she lets him.
Wait for the right moment... just a little bit longer!
They arrive at the lift and Harry steps in; she's pleased. Yesss there's no need to lure him. She follows diligently; smacking her lips with her tongue behind him. Despite Harry's erratic heartbeat, his facial features remain relaxed and void of emotion. His eyes look perplexing, as he gently taps his wand on a panel to close the door. Pansy notices a bandage on his wrist and a small pool of dried blood has seeped through it.
Lub-dub.
"Pansy. Pansssy."
Pansy watches Harry tap the panel with calculating glare. The moment the doors close her true strength explodes. She effortlessly peels her arms away from her body, tearing the sleeves of the jacket without warning. She lunges at him hastily, only one thing on her mind. Must taste. Yes! Fresh blood.
Pansy's hands wrap around his neck as she slams his back into the elevator door. She snatches his wand and taps the emergency stop. It halts in its path immediately. She makes her demands known, relishing the privacy, and his close proximity in the lift.
Harry is taken aback by her brazen behaviour. His emerald eyes peer shocked at her effortless attempt to seclude him in the four walls of this tight, constrictive space. A nervous sweat beads across his forehead while his heart stammers in his chest. He opens his mouth to speak but Pansy interrupts him, placing her pointed digit to his lips— "ssshut it, Potter," she hisses.
Harry quirks a brow at the roll of her "s," and it tickles his senses. He needs to regain control of the situation, but he's not entirely sure that he wants too.
"Parkinson...what are you doing?" he questions wearily.
"Potter," Pansy spits poetically, as his name rolls her tongue seductively. She leans into him, running her nose along the shoulder of his scrubs—stopping to inhale at the base of his neck. "What does it fucking look like I'm doing?" she states matter-of-factly.
Harry's heart skips a beat at the closeness of her, and flashes of last night's dream come to mind...her naked body grinding on top of him; her perky titts bouncing in his face… Her long raven locks dancing over her shoulders as he thrust into her.
He releases a shaky breath, trying to push aside the realness of his dream. This isn't happening. It's a dream—just like all the others.
Pansy barks a loud cackle at his confusion, "Don't act like my animalistic tendencies shock you. You knew all along didn't you? That's why you threw me into isolation." She runs her tongue along the external of his neck, right where his jugular is located, and the fluttering beat of his heart calls her again.
"Pansy. Pansssy." Her internal voice struggles. Fuck! Potter how am I supposed to savour you when your fucking pulse is screaming my name!
Harry attempts to distract her to place at least an inch of distance between them. He slips his knee between her legs and replies smoothly, "I needed some time to figure it out. But yes, I knew."
Pansy's head whips up to face him at his imposition, and the prophecy comes to mind again. Fuck. I want to drain him dry and he wants to fuck me. Damn this fucking prophecy! Fucking damn succubus curse!
The prophecy echoes in her mind;
"Mother of the daughter must be slain in vain; a servant so loyal will take the blame.
Tempted by the father, as pure they come. He knows the secret of the Anointed one.
The daughter of the mother; a half-breed witch, bloodthirsty as the night; immortality is bliss.
The servant; so loyal—lured by lust, defiled her duty and burdened to the shadows as such.
Guilty conscious and his indiscretions; a bond; a curse, and consummation.
A Lord so dark; once destroyed—will return.
Only possible once destroyed by "The Chosen One."
'The Anointed,' and 'The Chosen;' undisclosed desires; reincarnate through birth, the spawn of an indestructible Lord."
Snapping out of her momentary daze, Pansy finally responds. "What a pity it took so long. I could have played with you sooner." Her lips brush his neck and she allows her tongue to glide along his skin. She stops midway, "but my mother taught me it's rude to play with my food," she preaches.
Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub
The beat of Harry's heart is taunting her with the promise of blood. Pansy's fangs erupt from her fleshy gums and the rawness of them is almost euphoric for her. She tilts her head back, inhaling deep—knowing that once she starts it's almost impossible to stop.
Do it. NOW!
Pansy's teeth pierce his tender flesh, and the frenzy kicks in. She is gulping down his blood; desperate to quench her thirst. He tastes better than she imagined and comes up for a breather to savour his flavour.
Harry watches his hot, thick crimson dribble down her chin, mesmerized by her bloodlust. He rips open the remainder of her jacket to expose her titts and he is overwhelmed by the sight.
The act of the prophecy draws near.
Harry fumbles to remove the rest of her clothes as they fight for domination.
A battle of temptations, on the path of absolute destruction.
It's inevitable, their efforts are futile. Undisclosed desires and destruction will win.